Call Me
by smacky30
Summary: A series of phone calls between the two detectives ends in an unexpected way.  What happens when there isn't a phone to keep Fitch protected?  Rating is for what is implied.


_**Disclaimer: Not Mine.**_

_**A/N: I hope this works. Fitch fascinates me (he's like Grissom x2). I also want you all to know that my beta's are the best in the world. Losingntrnslatn tricked me into writing this and then listened to me wibble over it for days. Mingsmommy encouraged and cheered and then beta'd and she doesn't even watch the show (but I'm working on that)**_

Cell phone pressed to his ear, back turned toward Sanchez, Fitch asks, "Did you sleep with him?"

Her choked grunt of outrage hits him in stereo. "That's not any of your business."

"You're right." Turning slowly, he meets her angry eyes across the room. "So, did you want to get a drink with me after work?"

Mouth dropping open in disbelief, she leans forward and drops the phone into the cradle.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

There are days the noise in the bullpen makes him want to rip his hair out. All the camaraderie, the bonhomie of people who work hip to hip, people who slog through the realities of death on a daily basis, is more than he can take. He's pretty sure that if someone looked up the word misanthrope, his picture would be beside it. He also knows his partner is meant to be some sort of test.

Right now, the kid is on the phone babbling like an idiot at his two month old baby. Why people do that is beyond Fitch's comprehension. Not that he doesn't like kids. He does. They are way more uncomplicated than adults. Far easier to understand, at least when they can talk.

When his phone rings, he shakes off his thoughts and answers. "Fitch."

"Would it bother you if I slept with Stone?" Her voice is low and silky and he keeps his gaze locked on his desk, to keep his eyes from seeking her out.

Oddly enough, the thought of her sleeping with the pretty boy detective doesn't make him jealous. He's seen the way she looks at the younger man and there's nothing there that worries him. But on a primal level, the level that wants her to be his, he is bothered.

"Yeah." He tries to bark the word out like he would if it were about a case. Fast and hard and a little distant. He hopes he's succeeded, because Washington is off the phone and watching him. Fitch can feel the kid's eyes on him.

Furtively, he glances up to find her staring at her computer screen. She's twirling a curl around her finger, nonchalance written all over her.

"Why?"

It's an easy question. One word. One syllable even. But there is no easy answer.

Fitch gives it his best shot. "I'm not sure I'm ready to tell you that."

Across the room she nods, spinning her chair until she can see his face. "When you're ready, let me know."

When she hangs up, he snaps his phone closed and leans back in his chair, spinning the phone around and around between his fingers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

It's late. Very late. He dials her number anyway. When she answers, her voice is rough with sleep. "Sanchez."

He doesn't say anything. Nothing. He just wants to hear her voice, her breath as it fills her lungs.

"Fitch?' She sounds confused and maybe a little annoyed. He can see her squinting at the caller ID in the dark, eyebrows drawn down over her liquid brown eyes. "Is that you? Is there a call out?"

"No." He stares at the spider web in the corner of his living room ceiling. He'll knock it down tomorrow, and in a couple of days it'll be back. He's tried to find the culprit, but so far, no luck. "Do you know how to catch a spider?"

"What?" Annoyed. Definitely annoyed. "Do you know what time it is?"

There's a clock hanging over the fireplace and he glances at it. "Twelve-thirty."

He can hear the rustle of material and a deep sigh. "Seriously, Fitch. Do you want something?"

"I want to know what you dream about." He says it just to keep her talking. It's the first thing that comes to his mind. Oddly, he realizes he means it. He does want to know what she dreams about, thinks about, longs for. He wants to know what her hair looks like spread over her pillow case and if she snores. He wants to know how she looks fresh out of the shower, and if she's grumpy before her first cup of coffee.

Holding this desire up, he takes a long look at it, this need to know things about her, then he tucks it away for later.

Her chuckle sounds a little self-conscious. "You know how to find out, don't you?"

He does know. All he has to do is tell her why he doesn't like the idea of her sleeping with John Stone – or anybody else for that matter. Still, he's not ready. Not yet.

"Yeah. I know."

She's silent. He has the insane urge to fill that silence with words, with noise. Strange how being on the asking side of an interrogation makes it easy to forget what this feels like: the burning desire to talk, words filling your mouth, crowding around your teeth and tongue, choking you. Fitch swallows, clearing his mouth and his mind of the things he wants to say, and waits her out.

"Go to sleep, Louis." Now, she's not amused, just tired. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He holds the phone until the dial tone starts.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It's been a long time since he's been so attracted to a woman. Not physically. That's the easy part. But intellectually. That part isn't so easy, isn't so clean.

"Fitch," he barks without checking caller ID. He knows that when his phone rings at this ungodly hour it can't be good and he feels no need to play nice.

"Hey," her voice is quiet. "We've got a bad one. I thought you might want to take a look."

His brain is catching up with his body, and he realizes she sounds…weary. "Where are you?"

Sanchez is rattling off an address even as he swivels and puts his feet on the floor. He's naked and the air is cold on his sleep warmed skin. Shivering, he reaches for the pen and paper beside the bed, jotting down what she's saying.

"I can be there in twenty." He runs a hand over his chest, scratching absently through the crisp hair there. Behind him, the bed is calling. In his ear, her words are shaky. Without stopping to consider the consequences, he blurts, "You okay?"

She goes very quiet. He can hear the chaos of the scene through the phone. The breath she draws in shudders, and when she speaks, her voice is thick with emotion. "I'm fine."

Fear grips him. Nasty, gut churning fear. Not of what's in store at the scene, but of what he's supposed to do if she starts crying. He's not good at that sort of thing. Never has been.

"Good." It's brisk and dismissive and he knows it. "Don't let them touch anything until I get there."

She clears her throat and he can almost see her straightening her shoulders, stiffening her spine. "It's a kid, Fitch. Hurry."

The shower seems to take forever, even though it's only five minutes. The drive seems even longer. By the time he pulls up in front of the dilapidated row house the approaching day is turning the sky to a pearl gray. It will be light soon and the place will look even worse; they always do.

Sanchez is squatting next to the M.E. beside what looks like a small pile of rags next to the foundation. Trash and empty crack vials litter the gutter and what's supposed to pass for a front yard. A rusted red tricycle is parked crookedly on the front walk. On the concrete stoop, a woman screams for her baby. Outside the crime scene tape, a handful of neighbors gawk at the collection of cops and paramedics.

The whole thing makes him sad.

"What happened?" Fitch asks as he stops beside her.

Hands pressing against her knees, Sanchez pushes to her feet. "Drive-by."

"Anybody talking?"

She lets her head drop back, staring up at the last vestiges of the night. "Nope." With a deep sigh, she meets his eyes. "Thanks for coming."

Averting his gaze, reining in the urge to comfort her, he says, "Anytime. All you have to do is call."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Parking is for shit, and he's going to have to walk five blocks just to get to her building. He's sitting in the car in the gated lot, asking himself if he's sure. Over and over. He's been asking himself that since he left home twenty minutes earlier. His body is sure, has been sure for a very long time. His heart is pretty sure considering how cautious he is in these types of situations. But his brain? His brain is screeching at him to go the hell home and take care of things in the shower and forget about how much he _likes_ this woman.

Fitch moves slowly, but with purpose, his shoes crunching on the grit covered concrete. At least it's a nice night for a walk. Cool after the heat of the day. The street lights hum along overhead, people stroll along the sidewalk, cars glide past on the street. He looks around at the trendy restaurants and shops, all signs of a revitalization project, and wonders why the people who lived here before didn't care enough to keep it safe and clean.

She lives on the top floor of a three floor walk up. Fitch considers the possibility that climbing all the stairs is what keeps her in such good shape. Then he thinks about how funny it is that all apartment buildings seem to have the same smells. Stale air and old grease and _people_. Granted, some places are worse than others, and this one isn't bad at all. Still it's there, under the smells of furniture polish and bleach and air freshener.

There's a thin strip of light spilling out underneath her door. Warm yellow light that looks homey and comfortable, that makes him want to stretch out and relax. When he dials her number he hears the ring in stereo.

"Sanchez." Her voice is a little lazy, like she's drifting along on the edge of sleep.

He stares at the brass numbers on her door, sees his distorted face staring back. "It's me."

"Fitch?" She yawns, a rushing inhale that makes him smile. "Sorry. Is that you?"

"Yeah." In his pocket, his free hand is jiggling his keys. "Are you…are you busy?"

"No." She draws the word out. "Why?"

_Last chance, _his brain says. Leaning forward, his forehead bumping quietly against her door, he says, "Want some company?"

It takes her a second. Actually, it takes a few seconds. "Where are you?"

He hears her then, her feet thumping hollowly across the floor. Then her peephole darkens and the locks start flipping and she's in front of him. Her hair is messy and she's wearing an old t-shirt that falls softly over her breasts. Below her plaid pajama pants her feet are bare, and he can't stop staring at them. They are delicate, with soft pink polish on the nails. Totally unexpected, but incredibly sexy.

Still speaking into the phone, he pulls his hand from his pocket and gives a short wave. "Hi."

A slow smile spreads over her face, her full lips tilting up, her eyes sparkling. "Hi."

Slowly, reluctantly, he closes the phone. Now there's no barrier. There is only him and her and all those words.

Her phone snaps closed with a quiet click. "What are you doing here?"

"I think I'm ready." He runs a hand over his mouth, wishing this could be just a little bit easier. "To tell you."

She props there, against the door frame, and lets her eyes run over him, lets them linger at his mouth and at his crotch. There is heat there, and actual_ interest_. That's what keeps drawing him in. Not the prospect of sex, but the idea that she wants to know him.

"You think, Fitch? Or you know?"

Stepping closer, he crowds her. He's in her space, his chest a fraction of an inch from hers, but she doesn't back away. Just tilts her head back and looks up at him with patience, and that ever present hint of amusement, in her eyes.

His hands find her hips and his mouth covers hers and her gasp gets swallowed up by his moan. She's everything he thought she would be: warm and responsive, kissing him back with her arms around his neck, her hands in his hair. Then she changes the angle and her lips part just enough to tell him she wants more. And, really, who is he to argue with that?

He kisses her for a very long time, there in her doorway, with her TV playing softly just a few yards away, with her neighbors locked safely in their apartments, while outside people go about their lives. He kisses her and touches her hair, her back, her waist. He tugs her against him until he knows she feels his hardness, until she arches into it and begins to draw him inside. Then he pulls his mouth away and lays his cheek on hers.

"I'm sure," he whispers. "Positive."

She takes his hand then, her fingers weaving between his, her palm soft against his rougher one. Her breath tickles the hair over his ear when she replies.

"Then come inside. We've both waited long enough."


End file.
